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It’s so noisy here. Not just the loud birds whose name and species’ qualifications I don’t know, but also the song of the ice cream trucks, playing London Bridge of all things. The spanish children playing next door. The dog playing in the other next door, his large family setting up for a yard sale. The Jehovah’s witness in the third next door is quiet of course. She can’t make any noise unless her husband says she can.
It’s also really hot. At least, however, it is a dry heat, since humidity exists only as a legend here. It’s one of those things they have in the east. Like snow. And silence.